


Blushing and Crushing Hard, but in a Punk Way

by whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Nerd Dean, Punk Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:23:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and his nerd posse keep themselves carefully separate from Cas and his punk crew. But is the tension between the cliques enough to keep them apart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blushing and Crushing Hard, but in a Punk Way

Dean strode down the hall towards his afternoon lecture. His progress down the bustling hallway was smooth and unhurried; the crowd of students parted automatically to let him pass, since Dean and his friendly gang of bespectacled geeks were a familiar sight on campus, and people generally tended to respect them – no one wanted to risk a repeat of the Dick Roman incident. Dean adjusted his glasses, smirking as Charlie punched him lightly on the shoulder, calling for his support on a serious Star Trek debate that had been dividing the nerd crew all day. He could hear Gilda and Garth loudly decrying the newer films, and normally he’d be backing Charlie to the nines – he loved the alternate universe thing – but not right now. On this part of his walk to class, Dean had to concentrate.

Right on time, a black-clad gang came into view at the other end of the hall. Piercings sparkled in their ears and eyebrows and noses; some of them had vibrantly-dyed hair, others had colourful ink swirling up their arms. Their leader was walking with purpose, carving a path for his crew by radiating an angry and vaguely intimidating vibe. The two groups of people rolled down the corridor towards each other like two tumbling waves, Dean’s nerds hollering and squabbling, the punk crew whooping and singing.

“Hello,  _Dean_ ,” said their tall, tattooed leader once they were within earshot. Dean nodded casually in response.

“Hey, Cas,” he said, and then they were past each other.

“You two should really get a room,” Charlie said with a grin, receiving a nudge in the ribs from Gilda for her trouble. “What? He’s good-looking, almost as tall as you are, smart…”

“Smart,” Gilda snorted, “please. So he can paint, big deal. I’d like to see him conjugate a verb or list even  _three_ Star Trek episodes. Dean could do better. Right, Dean?”

“Hmm? Oh yeah, sure,” Dean replied with an easy smile, as they took their usual seats at the front of the lecture hall. “I’m not interested in Cas. Not my type.”

**

Cas, meanwhile, was attempting to paint a landscape whilst receiving copious romantic advice from his best friend, who sat at his side sketching a woman’s face.

“OK, uh, Balthazar,” Jo was saying, thinning her black lips as she stared critically at her work. “He’s kinda cute.”

Cas made a face, wrinkling up his pierced nose as he loaded up his brush with green.

“Got it, no. Um, Uriel?”

Cas didn’t even bother reacting to that one. He dabbed at his canvas impassively.

“What about… Dean Winchester?” Jo asked mischievously. Cas almost dropped his brush.

“There is no way I’m going to take Dean Winchester on a date,” he said sharply. “We have absolutely nothing in common. We’ve barely talked. He’s just a nerd who thinks he’s the greatest guy in the universe since his nerd crew shut down Dick Roman with that hacking thing. He’s ridiculous, and he gets on my nerves.”

Jo had paused her careful outlining of the woman’s right eye to stare.

“Well, okay then,” she said, “just not your type, I get it.”

“Please,” said Cas with a self-assured smirk. “I can do better.”

**

“Hello,  _Dean_.”

“Hey, Cas.”

The same every day. That slight mocking tone in Cas’ voice drove Dean up the wall, for a reason that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

He turned the question over in his mind as Joshua, their Latin lecturer, had them writing out the past tense of  _essere_ and  _audere_. I mean, it wasn’t as though Cas were especially attractive – he did have nice eyes, and Dean supposed his hair was OK even though he’d shaved some of it short and left the rest longer; and his tattoos weren’t that bad – actually, Dean kind of liked the strange, antiquated symbols that curled up from his wrists, running over his biceps. Dean caught himself wondering if the curving line of text joined up in the middle, perhaps between Cas’ shoulder blades or under his collarbones.

The point was, there was no reason for Cas to be stuck inside Dean’s brain, buzzing and tapping against his mind like a bumblebee caught behind a closed window. They were just entirely different people, who would never move in the same circles. Some things just weren’t meant to be.

That thought made Dean inexplicably angry. As he left the hall, he waved an absent goodbye to his crew and headed towards the library, since he had to study for a test the next day. He walked to the end of a long corridor, and paused at the end. He could turn left, to the library; or he could turn right, which led to the Computer Suite, the Cafeteria, and… the Art Department.

Dean’s feet were moving before he’d even made a conscious decision. Outside the paint-stained, poster-covered door to the department, he didn’t allow himself to hesitate: he strode inside, pasting a cocky smile on to his face.

Nine pairs of eyes locked onto him as soon as he entered, most of them curious, a couple unfriendly. Dean met the gaze of only one: bright blue, narrowed and unreadable.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas’ voice had lost that ironic twist, as though he’d finally stopped telling himself a joke that Dean hadn’t been able to understand. This time, he sounded slightly confused.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean replied automatically, feet rooted to the spot.

There was a pause.

“Did you want something?” Cas hazarded after a moment, cocking a teasing eyebrow. Dean willed himself not to blush.

“I, uh. I just wanted to look around, you know. Never been in here before.”

“No, well. It’s not like you have any business being here,” Cas said with a shrug. Dean was definitely going red now; he reached to push his glasses up his nose. A few of the students were smirking behind their easels. At that moment, Jo walked out of the back closet clutching a bottle of paint.

“Winchester,” she said with a smile. “You know, I think the mathlete’s meeting is down the hall, if you’re lost.”

“Yeah, I’m – I’m gonna just – go. Uh, see you,” Dean muttered in Cas’ general direction, without looking up. He almost ran out of the door, slamming it behind him.

“What was  _that_ about?” Jo asked curiously as she sat back down next to Cas.

“I have no idea,” Cas replied thoughtfully, setting down his paintbrush.

**

The next morning found Dean in the library, fast asleep. He often crashed on the couch at the back of the shelves when he had a test the next day; he studied hard, and there usually wasn’t time to go home. He sighed and rolled over in his sleep, drawn back to consciousness like a caver being winched out of a deep, dark cavern. He cracked open one eye.

“Jesus  _Christ_!” He sat up sharply, almost poking himself in the eye.

“Guess again,” said Cas with a small smile.

Dean scrubbed at his face with the heels of his hands, and surreptitiously pinched himself. Nope, not a dream: Cas was entirely real and standing right next to him. What the hell? He’d embarrassed himself to a majestic level in front of this guy yesterday, and now he was having his double-chinned sleep-on-the-sofa routine inspected too? He almost groaned aloud.

“I’m sorry if I woke you. I was going to leave before you started to stir,” Cas said, and looking up at him, Dean felt a little wave of pleasant shock roll through his chest. Cas’ face was different: he was still wearing eyeliner, he still had his nose piercing and his eyebrow piercing, his gaze was still whetted like an elven blade – but something in the line of his mouth, the tilt of his head, was softer somehow.

“That’s OK, that’s fine,” Dean mumbled, pushing a hand through his hair.

“I have coffee. Want some?” Cas proffered the cup. Dean accepted it after a moment’s hesitation, wondering what exactly was happening. He sipped: it was hot and sweet enough to kick his dazed brain into action. He cleared his throat. “Hey, Cas,” he said, trying a smile.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas replied, smiling back – not the usual twist of cynicism that curled up one corner of his mouth, but a real, genuine smile. Dean felt it like a strangely pleasant punch to the gut.

“What brings you to the library?” he asked, levering himself off the sofa and adjusting his glasses, which had skewed slightly while he slept. “It’s not like you have any business being here.”

Cas’ smile dimmed slightly, and Dean wished he hadn’t taken the easy shot.

“I came to look for a book,” Cas said snippily, pulling a slip of paper out of the back pocket of his silver-studded black jeans. “Weirdly, art students can actually read.”

 _I don’t think Peppa Pig counts_ , Dean nearly retorted, but bit back the reply.

“Sorry,” he said instead, and enjoyed the wide-eyed look of surprise that he received in return. “Can I help you find the book?”

“Yes, that would be good. I’m looking for something on ancient runes, or old writing – hieroglyphs, maybe. For a new tattoo,” Cas explained as Dean began to lead him through the shelves. “I’ve already got this one on my arms and chest, but I want another one. I just can’t decide where, or what it should be. Nothing feels quite right.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully.

“There are lots of good ones down these aisles,” he said, feeling his own enthusiasm bubbling up as he walked down the shelves. “Hang on, I’ll just… I’ve got this thing, I can use keywords to find what you’re looking for. We’ll go, uh,  _rune_ ,  _writing, ancient_. See how that goes.” Dean looked up to find Cas staring at the device in his hands.

“What is  _that_?” Cas demanded. The machine was small and covered in sellotape.

“It’s a, uh, it’s a little thing I made so that I can find books more easily. The library doesn’t have a keyword search system, so… I made my own.” He waved the device proudly.

“You made that?” Cas reached out to take it, turning it over in his long fingers. “That’s amazing, Dean.”

Dean felt a small fire start in his chest.

“Thanks,” he said simply, consulting the screen of his machine to hide his dopey smile. “OK, it’s saying that there’s a good one right…  _here_.” He pulled the volume out of the shelves and blew the dust off the cover. Cas flipped through a few of the pages; there were plenty of runic drawings, with short explanations of their origins.

“This is perfect,” Cas said with a smile. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Any time,” Dean replied, matching his grin and twisting his device over and over in his hands. Cas was standing fairly close, his eyes not shifting from Dean’s face, raising goosebumps all down Dean’s arms. “So, I guess I’ll see you round.”

“Yes. Maybe you could drop by the Art Room again sometime.”

Dean grimaced.

“Yeah, that went so well last time. Like I really want to get humiliated again by a dumb bunch of…” he trailed off, but it was too late; the cold, hard look was already covering Cas’ face like a mask.

“And now back to your regularly-scheduled intellectual egotism,” he remarked. “It was nice seeing you.” He stalked off, disappearing between the shelves as suddenly as he’d arrived.

Dean breathed out slowly and closed his eyes, feeling disappointment sinking down onto his shoulders. It had all been going so well.

 _Some things just aren’t meant to be_ , whispered a smug voice in Dean’s head. He stomped back to his desk, and attempted to drown it out by studying.

**

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas.”

“Something’s different,” Charlie said, as soon as they’d rounded the corner. “What happened with Cas? Did you guys talk? Fight? Kiss?”

“Gross, as if,” Dean said half-heartedly. Charlie gave him a stony look. “OK, we talked. It was… he was different. Nicer.”

“Nicer than what? You’ve never really talked before.”

“Nicer than he seems, I guess? You know, because of his…” Dean mimed Cas’ mismatched hair and nose piercing.

“You moron, Dean,” Charlie said flatly. “Go and talk to him. Apologise for whatever dumb thing you said, because he’s clearly pissed, so you must have said something dumb. And then take him out to dinner and romance him with Sappho and Socrates.”

Dean frowned sceptically.

“Socrates is one of the least romantic writers I can think of.”

“Did it for the sibilance,” Charlie admitted. “Probably a mistake. The point stands, though. Get thee to the Art Department, Winchester. As soon as class is over.”

So an hour later, Dean was lurking outside the Art Room where Cas painted. He rocked forwards and backwards on his toes, paced, sat down, stood up. He pressed himself up against the door, listening for voices.

“Put your canvases away. We’re moving on to a life model, quick sketching and painting only. I’ll see if I can find someone I can borrow…” Dean pulled back sharply from the door and tried to lose himself in the slow tide of passing students as he heard footsteps approaching from the other side. A brown-haired woman poked her head out and pointed straight at Dean.

“You. Got anything to do in the next couple hours?”

Dean shook his head miserably.

“Get in here, son. My name’s Ellen and you’re going to be modelling for my class.”

Dean traipsed into the room, staring straight at the floor.

“No need to look so sad, honey. It’s always dangerous to loiter outside the Art Department, believe me, this is not the worst thing that could’ve happened to you. Up there, please.” Ellen indicated a straight-backed wooden chair.

“Oh, it’s Winchester,” Jo called. “Nice of you to drop by. How’s the whole dumb nerd thing going?”

“You can just put your clothes over there,” said another girl – Sarah, Dean thought her name was – pointing at a table in the corner.

“W – what? You want me to –”

“No,” said a low, familiar voice. “They’re messing with you. Hello, Dean.”

“Right. Hey, Cas,” Dean said, trying to smile and failing. He wanted to evaporate, become a Dean-cloud that could disappear out of the room and float away into the sky. He risked a single glance over at Cas, and saw that he was staring at Dean speculatively.

“You came,” he said.

Several sarcastic responses occurred to Dean, but he shelved them.

“That’s my superpower,” he said instead. “Turning up when I’m asked to.”

“Very Batman,” Cas commented. “Next time I’ll just put a big light up in the sky.”

“Dude… a Batman reference? I love Batman.”

Cas was about to answer, but Ellen shooed him back to his seat.

“Let’s get painting, people, come on,” she said. “Mr Model, to your seat please. No posing, just sit naturally. And comfortably. You’re going to be there for a while.”

Dean had to admit that there were worse ways to spend an afternoon. He could  _feel_ Cas’ eyes on his skin, mapping out the distance between his collarbones, the curve of his shoulders, the shape of his hands: getting to know his body without having once touched it. It sent shivers up and down his spine. Every now and then their gazes would lock, and Dean would feel that fire in his chest being fanned, eating up the eye contact like flames with dry tinder.

“OK, we’re done for today,” Ellen said. “Leave your paintings on your easels, I’ll look at them tomorrow.”

Dean stood up, stretching away the stiffness in his neck. He wandered over to Cas’ easel.

“So, can I look?” he asked, attempting to be smooth and lean on the easel, and almost falling over. Cas smiled.

“Of course, Dean.”

The painting was simple – outlines, mostly, with a little coloured detailing around Dean’s face and torso – a torso wrapped up tight in black armour.

“You – you painted me as Batman,” Dean said, incredibly quietly. Cas looked suddenly worried.

“Is it – it’s not wrong to do that, is it?” he asked, fidgeting with his paintbrush.

“No, Cas, it’s – it’s amazing. You made me Batman.”

Dean stared at it in silence for a long time.

“Sorry I insulted your friends,” he said eventually. “Sorry I’m too proud sometimes.”

“I’m sorry too, Dean,” Cas replied. “We were always going to argue a bit. We’re very different people.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t matter, does it?”

“No,” Cas said with determination. “I like you, and you like me, so we’re good.”

“Oh, you’re sure about that?” Dean asked, his eyebrows raised, blushing slightly, suddenly very aware that they were the only two people left in the room. “Sure I like you?”

“Well, let’s test the theory,” Cas said, moving closer, right into Dean’s space. “What do you think? Is this good?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, um, good. Could be better, though,” said Dean, stepping forward himself, so that they were almost nose to nose.

“Yes, this is much better. And if I just –” Cas placed his hands lightly on Dean’s hips. Dean could see the light glinting in Cas’ eyes and in his small diamond nose piercing. He leaned forward slightly –

“Cas, we’re going to the cafeteria if you wanted to – oh,” Jo said, “ _oh_. Please excuse me, gentlemen. I will be going.”

She disappeared back through the door.

There was silence for a moment, broken when Dean laughed.

“Moment gone,” he said ruefully, without moving away.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Cas replied, dropping his hands to his sides. “Well, I’d better catch them up.”

“Oh, sure. See you around, Cas.”

Cas picked up his bag and hurried out of the door. Dean followed soon after, clutching a still-wet canvas in his arms.

**

The next evening, Dean was checking out the New Arrivals section in the library when he felt a pair of arms slide around his waist.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas said, pulling Dean around and muttering the words against the side of his neck.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean replied, matching the action and speaking with his lips lightly brushing the soft, smooth skin under Cas’ ear.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas said again. “Hello, Dean. Hello, Dean.” He breathed the words into Dean’s skin, loosening his muscles, making him shiver.

Dean pressed a soft kiss to Cas’ neck. “Hey, Cas,” he said, just once more, and kissed the skin he’d spoken to.

“I brought food,” Cas said, holding up a paper bag. “I know you like to study, and you came to Art Class, so… here I am.”

They sat together on the couch, legs entangled, facing each other. The food disappeared fairly quickly, and the textbooks were soon discarded. Dean did like studying, and currently his favourite thing to observe was Castiel.

“Can I try your glasses?” Cas asked at one point, and Dean handed them over. “They’re not too strong. They barely make a difference,” he said, peering through them at Dean.

“They look good on you,” Dean said, grinning.

“They look better on you,” Cas replied, returning them.

“Can I – can I –” Dean stuttered, suddenly shy again. Cas smiled and picked up Dean’s hand, placing it on his own hair.

“Go ahead,” he said. “This is what you wanted, I hope. Otherwise, this is awkward.”

“No, this is what I wanted,” Dean said, low and rough, moving his hand across the shorter part of Cas’ hair. It felt soft, and slightly bristly against Dean’s palm. “Your tattoos…”

“Do you like them? This one is Enochian,” Cas said, lifting his t-shirt to reveal a flat, tanned stomach with a sigil inked on one side. “And the one up my left arm is partly more Enochian, partly Latin. It says –”

“ _Odi et amo_. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris? Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior,” Dean read aloud, holding Cas’ arm and twisting it round to read the poem. “Catullus, nice. And the right arm?”

“A translation,” Cas said. “I hate and I love. Why do I do this, you might ask? I do not know, yet I feel it and I ignite.”

Dean traced the words up Cas’ arm with a single finger. He could feel Cas shiver.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked.

“Of course, Dean.”

“I, uh, I always wanted a tattoo, actually. But I could never think of anything I’d want permanently.”

Cas looked at Dean with understanding in his bright blue eyes.

“You need to practise, first,” he said, standing up suddenly. “Come on, Dean.”

Night had fallen while they’d been talking; the corridors of the faculty building were warm and dark as they padded along them, hand in hand. Cas pushed through the doors to the Art Department, and sat Dean down on the floor. He flicked on a lamp and grabbed a pot of paint and a brush before coming to kneel down next to Dean.

“I’m going to paint something on your skin,” Cas said. “Please don’t look until I’m done.” He looked excited; the lamplight loved his face, settling above his cheekbones and in the deep blue pools of his eyes. “Dean?”

“You’re gorgeous,” Dean said stupidly. Cas grinned.

“I haven’t painted it yet,” he said warningly. “You might hate it. But it’s not permanent, so it doesn’t matter.”

They were silent for a while. Cas was painting, and Dean was thinking about permanency, and how sometimes things that haven’t even been started already feel just right, and how much that mattered.

“I like you,” he said. The low lighting, the glowing atmosphere of secrecy, and Cas’ nearness were all conspiring to make him feel giddy and trusting.

“I like you, too,” Cas replied, pressing a light kiss to Dean’s shoulder, above where he was painting the upper arm.

“Hmm,” Dean sighed happily.

A while later, Dean shook his head.

“Some things just aren’t meant to be,” he said.

“What?”

“Oh, no, don’t stop. It’s just something I was thinking, before. You know, uh, before we did – whatever we’re doing, I was thinking, we’re pretty different.”

“Okay,” Cas said slowly, poking his tongue out as he concentrated on his painting. The brushstrokes felt like tiny kisses on Dean’s arm, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

“And, uh. When I came to see you in the Art Department… it’s not about what you like, or how different you are, right? It’s about what you’ll do for each other.” Dean turned solemnly to look at Cas. “I’d take ten thousand more awkward moments and arguments if I could have a moment like this every once in a while, Cas.”

Cas reached up with his brush and splatted a little paint on Dean’s nose.

“You’re not just a pretty face, Dean Winchester,” he said, his voice even lower than usual.

“Some say I’m not even that,” Dean replied with a grin.

“Those people can fight me. Okay, I think it’s done.”

“I can look?”

“Yes, Dean. Look.”

Peering over his shirtsleeve and twisting his arm around to look, Dean sucked in a breath.

“It it yours?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Put your hand over it.”

Cas reached out and laid his fingers over the painting of a handprint on Dean’s arm.

“I love it, Cas,” Dean said. “I love it. It’s perfect.” He shifted, pulling Cas in close, wrapping his arms and his legs around him so that they were sat as close together as he could get them. Dean ran his finger up the line of Cas’ jaw.

“Dean, about what you were saying,” Cas said. “About us being different. I think –”

“Mmmhmm?” Dean said, rubbing his nose against Cas’, feeling the piercing move and switching to the other side.

“Don’t distract me. I think –”

“Yeah?” Dean encouraged, running his thumb along Cas’ chin, tracing the line beneath his lower lip.

“I think if we believe in ‘meant to be,’ we’ll never make it. We’ve got to  _make_ it be, Dean. You and me.”

Dean nodded.

“I understand, Cas,” he said, and that’s when Cas leaned forward and kissed him. It was a long, strong kiss, all warmth and softness and bite, smiling onto each other’s lips and chasing the taste of their mouths combined, new and unfamiliar. Dean ran his hand over Cas’ short hair; after a while, Cas pulled back, reached up and removed Dean’s glasses. Dean smiled a little shakily and leaned down to kiss his favourite place on Cas’ neck. “Hey, Cas,” he whispered into the skin.

He felt Cas’ jaw move against his own cheek when the other man smiled.

“Hello, Dean,” he murmured.

When morning arrived, it found them curled up together on the library sofa, soft contented smiles on their chapped, kiss-wrecked lips.

**

“You know, by all accounts, this is a terrible idea. If we break up in a week –”

“We won’t.”

“Or a month –”

“We won’t.”

“Or ever, really –”

“We won’t,” said Cas. “We’re too stubborn. Come  _on_ , Dean.”

Dean allowed himself to be dragged into the tattoo parlour, breathing in the fresh, clean smell and the grungy atmosphere.

“Look, we don’t have to do this, Dean,” Cas cautioned. “I know I just pulled you in here, but you can say no. I won’t mind.”

“I want to,” Dean said quietly, holding Cas’ hand. They’d been together for eighteen glorious months, and he’d had plenty of time to think about it. He reached out and ran a thumb over the skin under Cas’ ear, felt the same spot on his neck own throbbing, as though the words for the tattoos were already in place, spoken into the skin enough times that they were almost inked there already.

“Ready?” Cas asked.

“Ready,” Dean answered, determined.

**

Five days later, Cas was gently rubbing Vaseline onto Dean’s first tattoo. It had healed beautifully; the text was clear and evenly spaced. Dean was thrilled with it, couldn’t stop showing it off. Cas finished his ministrations, and pulled his boyfriend in close.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, reading those same words newly inked on Dean's neck.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean replied, and pressed a light kiss to the tattooed script below Cas' ear.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Dean tried so hard to resist. His whole body shivered.

Cas sighed.

“Just do it, Dean,” he said, in mock exasperation.

Dean looked into Cas’ eyes, bursting with joy.

“I know,” he said, and kissed Cas again.


End file.
